Fences don’t own the land.
The land owns you.
Sand piled against the cliffs
Blows across the water like mist.
Involved in sea rock and spray
You leave your questions with circling gulls.
The tide comes in as you walk down.
Where does this stream begin?
Frozen white mountains rise above the plain.
Water flows from the edge of snow.
Crashing waves break on sea cliffs
Where trees come down.
A stream is easily polluted while a sea holds more.
Climb back into the woods.
Ferns and nettles, pine and wild deer.
A red tail hawk flies above.
The hills and mountains that we love
Will change less even than those who change them.
Three rides and a walk is home.